


A Song of Ash

by Katercom



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Corvo doesn't quite know how to deal with life, Daud is a mess and trying his very best, M/M, The Outsider is having just a grande old time
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-19
Updated: 2018-05-21
Packaged: 2019-05-09 01:17:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14706374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katercom/pseuds/Katercom
Summary: The thing about guilt, Daud realizes after months of nightmares and cold sweats, is that it never really goes away.He wakes with a shudder, pressing a hand to his neck where phantom pain still lingers, and decides that he is tired of hiding.Somewhere, the Outsider laughs and laughs and laughs.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, this is mostly self indulgent and entirely the fault of one person. You know who you are.

The thing about guilt, Daud realizes after months of nightmares and cold sweats, the thing about guilt is that it never really goes away.

There was a dream once, before it all. He used to dream of a vineyard in Karnaca. His imagination painted it all in colourful strokes, from the startling blue of the sky down to the sweet smell of lemon wine and the way the grapes would stain his hands like ink. The sun shone, and the soil glowed, and life was peaceful and kind. Sometimes his whalers appeared, too, their hardened features softened and their voices joyful.

Now, he only dreams of it in brief flashes before the grape stains on his fingers turn red and the air turns to the sweetness of decay. He kneels on a marble floor. An empress dies under his hands.

A witch grins out of a painting.

A little girl screams as a crown of thorns is placed on her head.

A man with a mask presses a sword to his throat and watches as he pleads for his life.

Daud wakes with a shudder, pressing a hand to his neck where phantom pain still lingers, and decides that he is tired of hiding.

Somewhere, the Outsider laughs and laughs and laughs.

 

Before the sun completely rises behind the statue of an empress long gone, Daud is on a roof top far above the Flooded District.

Dunwall soaks into his skin with all its ugly might. The dampness of the district covers him like sweat.

Something shifts in the air and the roof top is no longer empty. The remnants of magic fizzle out like sparks of electricity. “Sir?”, Thomas speaks behind him.

Daud glances at him.

His second-in-command seems small without his mask and even smaller in his desperation. In the dim light he looks like the child he was when Daud saved him from the streets, wide-eyed and worn to the bone with hunger and exhaustion. “You won’t say your goodbyes to them?”, he asks.

Daud makes a broken sound of laughter. “Couldn’t bear to look them in the eyes. Can’t have them remember me like this, bawling like a child before them.”

Thomas looks at him for a long time. “You don’t have to go”, he whispers.

“You know I do. You’re not stupid, it’s been a long time coming”, Daud says. “You can lead them well.”

“Not as well as you.” Thomas hesitates, then he steps closer. He bites his lip hard enough to draw blood, but he doesn’t seem to register the pain of it. “I don’t want to lead, I- I never wanted this. If there were a choice- You should stay.”

Something aches in Daud’s chest. He wants to smile, too soothe, to lie, but in the end all he manages is to squeeze Thomas’ shoulder. Thomas sees through every lie he ever told. “I trust you to keep them safe.”

“Until you return?”

Daud closes his eyes. “Thomas”, he says.

He feels Thomas straighten underneath his grasp. “I’ll keep them safe, sir. Until you return. I swear it.”

“Good”, Daud mutters. He squeezes tighter still and lets go. He pulls at the magic sitting in his chest and disappears from the roof tops, once more only a shadow in a city of darkness.

He doesn’t look back.

 

When the sorrow reaches him, Daud is already too far away. His step falters for the briefest of moments and he has to take a breath to steady himself. Still, Thomas’ pale face burns in his memory, gaunt and so terribly young. He cannot linger on it: if he lets the grief swallow him, he will not surface from it for a very long time and he is on a mission.

Daud tried to leave the city only once, true to the promise he gave. After empresses and witches and guilt, heavy as a stone in his stomach, he boarded a ship bound south. He had enough of the cold dread lying over Dunwall, enough of the stink of whale oil and the smoke of factories – he yearned for warmth on his skin and spices on his tongue. Homebound to Karnaca.

He got a day’s journey away from the island of Gristol before he realized that the problem was not Dunwall. The problem had never been Dunwall. That day, he held a pistol to the captain’s head and turned the ship around.

The ship returned to Dunwall and Daud returned to the Flooded District, without his Whalers ever realizing he had been gone at all.

But it is no good. This time he will not return.

Daud is old and he is tired, and the Whalers deserve peace and quiet, a lone vineyard on a warm continent, not an old fool like him.

There is only one place to go, one place in this godforsaken world where all his nightmares converge. It is time to face them.

 

The palace opens up before him like a book waiting to be read. He knows every page and sentence of it. He knows the air ducts and the secret paths, and his feet wander them with practiced ease.

The guards are still on edge. He hears them mutter through the cracks and shift in their positions at the softest creak of metal above them. They are all new, replacing the corrupt machine that the military was during the coup. Corvo trained them well, no doubt, but some things cannot be trained away in a few weeks.

It would be an easy thing to kill them, but such things now only leave a bitter taste in Daud’s mouth. His hands have seen enough bloodshed to fill an ocean.

Then, the throne room lies beneath him. Crouched on a shelf far up, he is hidden from view and he takes a few minutes to take in the figures dancing the dance of aristocracy before the girl high upon her seat.

Little Empress Emily’s feet do not reach the ground from where they dangle from the throne. Ever so often, when the talks begin to bore her, she swings them back and forth, polished white shoes clanking against the stone of the throne. A chiding glance from her right, from the bodyguard who stands so menacingly at her side, nips that behaviour in the bud.

Daud spent six months working to save the girl’s life. To see her like this, alive and vibrant and allowed to be a child once more, takes something heavy off of his heart. One thing, at least, he has done right.

On that day at the palace long ago, with her mother lying lifelessly, Emily had screamed as though the sword had pierced her instead and she fought with every fibre of her being, kicking at shins and pushing her elbows against chests. But as soon as the palace was behind them, all fight left her body. All screams left her. He dragged her at first, then he carried her all the way to the Golden Cat. She hung limp in his arms, sobbing into his chest, clutching his coat with trembling hands.

Daud clenches a fist.

The world comes to a swirling stop, vibrating at the seams with the force of it. All voices die.

In the silence, Daud closes his eyes and focuses his mind on the rush of magic that is the Outsider’s sharp attention, black eyes staring down into his soul. A remnant of laughter, bright as bells and harsh as the sea, still rings in the abyss.

A voice creeps up his neck like a long-legged spider. _Old friend_ , the Outsider whispers, _how curious to find you in these ancient halls once again. Empress Emily Kaldwin, the first of her name – alive because of your actions. Motherless because of your actions. They will not receive you kindly, Daud. They never do, do they?_

If the Abbey of the Everyman had ever bothered to ask, Daud would have told them only one thing: the Void is cold. Like cold wind on a warm autumn day, it creeps into skin and takes all the warmth from it. It feeds on it. It vibrates with it. The Outsider’s presence is an extension of that, icy fingers grasping his soul and filling it with visions and far-off whale song.

But the thing he would never tell the Abbey – or anyone, for that matter – is that the Void feels like home more than Dunwall ever did.

Daud feels the Outsider smile, even without an image, without anything but the voice shifting around him. It bites like the blade of a knife. _I shall welcome you into the void when they rip your heart from your chest._

Daud’s lips twist into a bitter, sardonic grin. He opens his hand and reaches forward and the magic shifts.

His knees meet marble floor.

The throne room, with its noise of murmurs and politics, falls silent in a sickening rush.

Then, someone gasps, and the spell is broken.

Nobles stumble backwards, away from him. Guards pull their weapons. The Royal Protector steps before his charge and lays a hand on the sword sheathed at his belt. They all move slow, as though approaching a startled animal, as though backing a rabid wolf into a corner. No false move, no loud breathing, only their small steps toward him. They know his face. They know what he can do, and they are afraid.

“Empress”, Daud says. He dares not to raise his voice, but in the hushed tension even his low rasp rings like thunder. “I come to demand justice.” Slowly, he pulls his sword from its scabbard. The room seems to twitch at that, unease stifling. The guards shift closer still, small step after small step.

Corvo Attano frowns. His fingers twitch at the hilt of his weapon.

The light catches in the blade as Daud lays it on the floor before him. It glints with the memory of royal blood.

Corvo’s eyes linger on it before snapping up to Daud’s face with a murderous expression. He is halfway across the throne room, teeth bared, when the empress speaks up, a single trembling hand raised.

“Don’t kill him”, she says. Her voice is small, but it grows stronger with every word. “I want to hear him speak.”

Daud breathes out.

The guards stationed at the sides do not sheathe their swords, but they remain standing where they are, nervous eyes darting around the room, searching for his reinforcement.

Daud leans forward and bares his neck, as though laid over the executioner’s block. He speaks to his reflection in the polished floor. “I confess to the assassination of late Empress Jessamine Kaldwin and the abduction of her daughter and heir, under orders of Royal Spymaster Hiram Burrows. I place myself under your judgement, empress – may it be true and just.”

“You’ve already been given justice”, Corvo says through gritted teeth. He takes another step towards Daud, pushing aside the few brave nobles that are not already pressed against the walls in fear. “You should have left the city as you’ve sworn, Knife of Dunwall, with all your men and schemes.”

_I tried_ , Daud wants to say, but all his words are inadequate. Words are wind. Corvo Attano knows that better than most. “Aye”, he mutters. “You spared my life, Royal Protector, but it belongs in the hands of the Empire now.”

Clothes rustle and polished shoes clink unto polished marble as the little empress slides from her throne. “A trial?”, she asks. Emily glances back at one of her advisors and whispers an inaudible question that is answered with a shrug, then a hesitant nod. She looks back out to the throne room, pale face glowing in the light. “You will be subjected to a fair trial under the empire’s juris-”, she stumbles over the word, but quickly catches herself and straightens up, “-under the empire’s jurisdiction. Until then: guards?”

Four guards step out from among the ranks, weapons at the ready.  

Corvo turns to them and mutters a command.

Rough hands grip Daud and restrain him and he is escorted out of the throne room, the eyes of the aristocracy following his every step.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your kind comments!

Daud knows the prison inside out, every iron bar, every piece of dirt, every guard rotation, but he still feels the same he felt entering it the first time: dread. It settles like a cold fist in his stomach and presses against him from all sides, like air too stale to breathe.

The Overseers regard him through their masks, as dark-eyed as the being they fear so much. Their very presence makes his shoulders clench up. The song of their instruments drowns every pull of power in him, blocking off the wild surge of the Outsider’s gift. The void will not help him here.

For all it is worth, Corvo looks as uncomfortable as him. It is a small comfort. It might be a last trick to play, if things go wrong: the Empire does not know of the mark their Royal Protector keeps diligently hidden under gloves. Daud discards the impulse as quickly as it came.

The interrogation chamber passes on their left and Daud slows his steps to glance back at it. He wonders if he will be subjected to that before his execution. He has no information left to give, but torturers seldom care for such technicalities.

One of the guards twists his arm into his back and pushed him forward. “Keep moving”, she says.

The cell they put him in is small even by Coldridge’s standards: if he tries to spread his arms, the walls meet his elbows. The stone slab that is his bed makes up the entire length of the cell.

The guards search his person once more before the door shuts behind him.

Then, it is only him and Corvo.

The Royal Protector hesitates as the guards leave. He looks back towards Daud, the profile of his face stern against the low light. “You should never have returned”, he says. “I can’t promise you I’ll be merciful this time.”

Daud shrugs and touches a hand to the wall, digging his fingertips against the moist stone. They catch the subtle indentures of carved lines, one after another. A count of days. “Knew that before I came here”, he says.

Corvo’s brow furrows. Without another word, he turns on his heels and leaves Daud in the darkness, alone.

The day is young, but daylight does not reach this far into the prison. Daud instead marks the passing of time by the guard rotations and the amount of alcohol that thickens the air. He considers marking it into the wall as a reminder, but a cursory scan of the carvings leaves no blank space for his own. At least, he thinks, in a bout of sardonic self-irony, he has left a mark of his own in the world already. A mark of blood and chaos.

After the third guard rotation, a platter of food is pushed through the door: a cold paste that stinks of rot and vomit.

After the fourth rotation, the untouched platter is taken away and Daud wonders, for the first time, if he will breathe his last breath in the hellhole that is the Coldridge Prison Complex, without ever seeing an executioner’s block.

It would be an unthankful death, but perhaps it fits the crime. He has not come here for an easy fate, after all. He is marked for death since the day of his birth: he’s not afraid of it. If it can serve to provide closure to a motherless girl, then his heart rests all the more easy for it.

_You’ve grown sentimental, old friend_ , the Outsider whispers, barely audible above the sounds of water dripping from the ceiling. His presence shifts between Void and Dunwall, the briefest flash of coal eyes staring down at Daud with quiet amusement, before he disappears once more into the abyss, leaving only the faintest vibration in the air.

Daud knows better than to feel flattered by the attention. The Outsider is a fickle being: he holds no affection for his Marked, only the morbid curiosity of a child watching ants burn under the bundled glare of sun beneath a magnifying glass. It is the nature of creatures as old as him, even if his features are young. His laughter is bright as that of a child and his smile holds a boyish curl that almost distracts from everything that is off about him, but not enough.

His eyes are old. Even when he laughs, they are cold and ancient and terrible.

Out of the corners of his eyes, Daud sometimes sees him fray, his edges turning blurry like smoke torn apart by sharp wind. When he turns, the illusion is gone, but the Outsider’s smile is more brittle than before, a little less real.

Maybe he is fading. It would serve the bastard right.

After the seventh rotation, a bleary-eyed guard leads Corvo to his cell. A chair is dragged over the uneven ground.

Daud makes no pretence of indifference. He raises his head from the stone slab and squints at Corvo through the bars. “Is it time?”, he asks. His voice is roughened by the hours of disuse.

“There won’t be a trial.”

Daud’s head falls back to the stone and he closes his eyes, gathering up every scrap of composure that remains to him. “How will it be done?”

He hears Corvo shift. “There won’t be an execution, either. Emily has decided to spare your life.”

Daud bites his tongue and remains silent. He tastes the metallic sting of blood. Slowly, he sits up. His back aches with the movement.

“That’s not what you wanted.”

“No”, Daud mutters. “No, it isn’t.”

The chair creaks as Corvo leans forward. “Look at me”, he says. He curls a hand around one of the bars, his face so very close to the metal that Daud almost feels his breath. “You knew there would be no mercy for you here, and yet you decided to hand yourself over. What did you come here for? Why are you here? For death? For torture?”

Daud meets his eyes. Something cold twists inside him at the intensity of Corvo’s stare, something too close to sorrow for his comfort, and he focuses instead on a jagged divot in the floor behind Corvo. “I wanted to leave”, Daud mutters. “I keep my vows and I vowed to leave the city, so I tried. I _tried_. Didn’t get a day away before this fuckin’ city dragged me back by my ankles.” The divot blurs before his eyes, for the briefest moment of weakness, before Daud wipes away the stray tear with the rough palm of his hand. He runs the hand down his face and laughs, a harsh, bitter sound in the silence. “Absolution. I want absolution. Guess I thought death could give me that, at least.”

Corvo is silent for a long time. His jaw moves, clenches and unclenches. Slowly, he releases the bar from his grip and lays an open hand on Daud’s trembling arm. “I saw your face in my nightmares, for every day while I was locked in here, but it wasn’t- every single person responsible for her death is gone. I made sure of that. If I still thought you were a part of that, you would be as well.”

Daud glances up. His throat tightens with an unnamed emotion. “I killed her.”

Corvo’s fingers twitch, but they do not retreat. “I did enough terrible things as the instrument of powerful people to know that choice is a luxury not everyone is gifted with. I won’t punish the knife for the crimes its wielder committed.”

“I had a choice.”

Corvo considers him with narrowed eyes. The answer he gives is not an answer at all. “The Outsider talked to me tonight”, he says, every word calculating, speculating on a reaction.

Daud huffs. “He did? Bastard couldn’t keep his nose out of this one, could he?”

“He told me to ask after someone named ‘Delilah’.”

Daud throws his head back and _laughs_. “I imagine he was pretty smug about that”, he says between caught breaths, teeth bared into the mockery of a smile.

“Who is Delilah?”

The smile fades, as does all semblance of laughter. “A witch”, Daud says. “A mystery the Outsider gave me.”

“Tell me. Tell me of Delilah.”

Daud smiles. He sends a quiet curse toward the Outsider, receiving only the same bemused silence in return. And he tells Corvo the tale, the entire horrid tale of witches and curses that haunts his dreams.

The first time Emily’s name is mentioned, Corvo’s hand leaves his arm.

By the end of it, Corvo no longer sits in his chair at all. His eyes are blank, focused on something that isn’t Daud and isn’t Coldridge. “Would you have told me?”, he asks, voice as empty as his gaze. “If there hadn’t been mercy, if- would you have mentioned it at all?”

“Doesn’t really make a difference now, does it?”

In an instance, Corvo’s eyes refocus themselves. They glint like the sharp edge of a sword. “It does. Of course, it does. You saved her life. You- She – Delilah might have taken her, and I wouldn’t even have realized it until it was too late.” His hands curl around the back of the chair. His knuckles are white with the force of it.

“Corvo”, Daud begins, but his voice falters before he can even say the name. He shakes his head and lets his body fall back against the wall. The stone is wet and cold against his weary muscles. Words are not enough. They never are.

Corvo shoves the chair away. It clatters against the bars with a deafening noise that rings through the long hall.

Daud watches silently as Corvo turns away and leaves him once more to the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to give you an estimate for the next chapter, but I'll probably end up wrong anyway, so, y'know. I'll try.

**Author's Note:**

> I'll try to update within the next few weeks, but if there's one thing you should know about me, its that I'm a disaster and also incapable of writing. So, you know, doing my best.  
> Feel free to hit me up on tumblr!  
> https://captainturncoat.tumblr.com/


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